


Meet Me in the Woods

by Last_Chance_Anna



Series: STAY [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Arguing, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bisexual Tony Stark, Finally, First Time, M/M, Mutual Pining, RHODEY!, References to Depression, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Some Fluff, Steve Rogers hates "Titanic", Tony is the best boyfriend, Tough love from Rhodey, scene of racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:13:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21712792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Last_Chance_Anna/pseuds/Last_Chance_Anna
Summary: Continuing the events of "The Night We Met".  Tony and Steve trying to navigate the treacherous waters of their new relationship.
Relationships: James "Rhodey" Rhodes & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: STAY [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1543645
Comments: 12
Kudos: 53





	Meet Me in the Woods

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone reading this! I love you all!

He spent most of his time by the water

He still puttered around the house a little. He did the dishes, and made breakfast, and at night, would watch tv for an hour before going to brush his teeth, but mostly, he was outside.

He took a sketchpad and a book with him when he went, but Tony had never seen him use either one. Whenever he looked out on him--and he looked out a lot--they sat in a tidy pile on the ground beside his chair, within reach but never reached for, while Steve sat looking out at the water.

Tony had no idea what he thought about during all those hours spent on the dock. He didn’t ask and Steve didn’t tell. A chilly wall had come between them after that first night, and now, a week later, it was still there.

They were polite to each other, courteous and respectful, saying things like, “Please pass the salt,” at dinner, and “Thank you for folding the laundry.”

It was hell.

Tony remembered his parents’ stiff, cordial conversations. Usually they ended with his mother leaving the table to cry herself to sleep and Howard making another drink. Until he’d met Pepper, he’d assumed all relationships were like that. He hadn’t known there could be laughter and happiness and camaraderie with the person you shared your life with.

And then there’d been Steve. He’d come into Tony’s life like a cannonball, all solid and stubborn and passionate. He’d been very little like the man Howard had spoken of when he was feeling nostalgic. Of course, that man was _there_. The bravery. The decency. The strength. But the more time Tony spent with him, the more he believed Howard hadn’t known him as well as he thought he had. Tony felt sorry for him then, and that was a new sensation because he’d never felt sorry for Howard in his life. But hearing Steve talk baseball stats with Rhodey on the Tower's rooftop deck, or listening to Bruce try to explain climate change to him, Steve’s face serious, his questions thoughtful and curious, or just seeing him nap on the couch in the common room, lying on his stomach, arms around a pillow, hair falling over his brow and shining in the sun, Tony _did_ feel bad for Howard. Because as much as the courageous, stalwart, American icon was Steve Rogers, those other things were also him-- _more_ him, really--and Tony wished Howard could have lived to see that.

Tony wished Howard could have lived to see how happy _he_ was when Steve was around.

But things were different now, and Tony finally understood his parents a little better. He understood that even though you loved someone, _ached_ for them, sometimes it was easier when they were out of the room. Understood that being with them didn’t automatically equal contentment. Understood that sometimes being with them was lonelier than being alone.

Tony found himself thinking about Pepper more and more. Their relationship had not always been easy, but it had been safe. A literal and figurative safety net for him whenever he stumbled. He thought back to that first night here with Steve, wondering how he hadn’t fallen without Steve to hold him up, and the answer was Pepper. He hadn’t been afraid to fall back then, because she was there to pick him up. Always. Every time. He hadn’t needed Steve to lean on because Pepper caught him before he hit the ground.

He hated thinking like that. Hated thinking he was too vulnerable for Steve and too reckless for Pepper.

He wondered if it was thoughts like that that made Howard drink. Made his mother cry.

Yeah, it was hell, alright.

He heard Steve leave the house as he put the dishes away. He didn’t ask where he was going, but habit forced him to look out the window. He didn’t go out to the dock this time, so it was to be one of his trips around the lake, then. He did it a lot, wheeling along the paths and broken roads, using the pavement if there was any, making his way around the circumference of the lake. It was eight miles. Eight point three, to be exact. Nothing like the marathon runs he used to take every morning, but it was harder going, with the chair, and he’d come back, red-faced and sweating, shower, then usually nap for half an hour before dinner. Tony only knew this from observation, not because they talked about it. They hadn’t talked about much lately. “Much” meaning “anything”.

Tony watched until he was out of sight and started to go back to the dishes when a sleek black car came down the driveway.

It was a Lexus, low-slung and sexy, but not as flashy as the Bentley even for all its fresh-off-the-lot newness. It had D.C. plates. Tony’s brow furrowed and he wished heartily for a gauntlet.

The door opened, but instead of bureaucratic, government-issue dress shoes, plain old Nikes came into view.

Tony bowed his head, laughing in relieved, happy breaths as the guy stepped out of the car and looked around, his hands on his hips. Tony tossed the dish cloth he was holding over his shoulder and walked outside.

“Quite a place you have here, Stark.”

Tony didn’t say anything. He just came down the steps and fell into warm, friendly arms. Rhodey caught him. He was good like that.

  
They sat out on the deck, each of them with a beer. It wasn’t quite five o’clock yet, but hell, it was June and sunny, and Tony was on vacation. You were supposed to drink on vacation. He thought it might even be in the Constitution.

“It’s a nice view,” Rhodey said, gesturing with his bottle toward the lake.

Just as Tony had expected, there were motorboats out there now. A couple of jet-skis. Clear across the lake, they could see a bunch of colorful dots in the water, kids swimming and splashing in the shallows.

“Yeah, it is,” he agreed. “It’s pretty at night, too. When the moon shines on it.”

“Sounds...romantic?” Rhodey said, his voice ticking up at the end, turning it into a half-question.

Tony smiled, scraping at the label on his beer. “I guess.” He shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Trouble in paradise, huh?”

“Don’t be an asshole.”

Rhodey raised his hands. “I’m not. You just looked like a wounded collie when I drove up and I couldn’t think of another reason why.”

“You need to work on that ‘not being an asshole’ thing. ‘ _Wounded collie_ ’. Christ.”

“So, there’s something else, then?” he asked, and looked around, wide-eyed. “Where is big, blond, and beautiful, anyway?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“No, I kiss yours.”

“Fuck you,” Rhodey said, and they both dissolved in laughter.

Tony reached over, grabbed Rhodey’s arm, latching onto him and shaking him a little. “God, it’s good to see you.”

“You can thank your man for that.”

Tony shot him a surprised look. His hand fell away from his arm. “What are you talking about?”

“He called me,” Rhodey said mildly, and took a long pull from his beer. “He said you needed somebody to talk to.”

“He did not.”

“Mm,” Rhodey nodded. “I said, ‘He’s got you, doesn’t he?’ and when he didn’t say anything, I thought I’d better come see what was up.”

Tony rubbed his face with his hand. It was a tired gesture, one he was pretty sure he had picked up from Steve, but he couldn’t help it. “He shouldn’t have done that,” he muttered, and finished off his beer.

“Really?” Rhodey said. “Because it looks to me like he made the right call. You’ve lost weight, and you don’t look like you’ve been sleeping.” He gave Tony a stern, motherly look. “You look like shit, man, and if you can’t talk to him, then talk to me.”

Tony rolled the empty bottle between his hands. “He doesn’t _want_ to talk to me,” he said. “I tried. He just...won’t.”

“Tell me what happened.”

He told him what happened.

He left out some of the more intimate details, the kisses and caresses, the way Steve looked with the razor in his hand, the heavenly feel of Steve’s tongue in his mouth. He left out, too, his own bout of teenage-style lust. He was still ashamed of it and hoped he could take that little tid-bit to the grave.

But he told him everything else. The things they’d said earlier in the day, as well as the fight they’d had in the evening. He even told him about Steve’s frustration-fueled violence, although he tried to keep the reason vague out of respect for Steve’s privacy. Tony was pretty sure Rhodey understood anyway.

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?” Rhodey asked, his calm voice masking the murder in his eyes.

“Oh, god, Rhodey, no,” Tony said sincerely. “He’d kill himself before he ever hurt me again. It was nothing like that.”

“Straight out of the battered-wives handbook.”

“I’m not a battered wife, _James_. Besides, I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can, _Anthony_ , but the point is, you shouldn’t have to.”

Tony sighed. “I just want him to get better, you know?”

Rhodey put a friendly hand on the back of his neck. “I do know, but you can’t always save someone who’s drowning. You can throw them a life preserver, but if you jump in after them, sometimes you both go under.”

“He needs me.”

“I know. Look, I know you care about the guy--”

“Love,” Tony said, smiling a little at him. “You can say it, Rhodey. We’re past all that toxic-masculinity-I’ve-got-no-feelings bullshit, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, since about the day we met when you sat in my lap and told me how soft I was.”

Tony laughed. “What can I say? I’m a cuddly drunk.”

“It was ten a.m. You weren’t drunk.”

“Right.”

“You need to get him some help,” Rhodey said levelly. “And that help can’t be you. You can be there for him, but you can’t be his shrink. That’s not the way it works, Tony.”

Tony nodded. “I know.”

Rhodey finished off his own beer and put the empty bottle on the table next to him. He glanced at Tony sideways, his hands in his lap. “He asked me to come get you, you know.”

“What do you mean, ‘come get me’?”

“I mean come get you. Pack your shit. Take you home. Come get you.”

“He wants me to leave?”

Rhodey shook his head. “I didn’t say that.” He paused. “ _He_ said that, but I’m pretty sure that’s not what he really wants.”

Tony looked at his hands. “I’m not sure what he wants anymore. Maybe I never knew.”

“You want an outsider’s perspective?”

“Sure.”

“He wants _you_.”

“I don’t know.”

“I wasn’t going to tell you this,” Rhodey said, leaning forward and planting his elbows on his knees, “but I saw him yesterday at that burger place across the lake.”

Tony just stared at him. He hadn’t even known there was a burger place across the lake.

Rhodey went on. “I’m not claiming to be an expert, but I swear to god, I’ve never seen anyone as in love as he is.” He laughed and slapped Tony on the back. “I don’t know how you stand it,” he said.

“What?”

“The fucking _earnestness_ , man. And those puppy dog eyes.”

Tony nodded. “He says he doesn’t have puppy dog eyes.”

“Oh yes, he does. And they’re--”

“Lethal. I know.”

“And, uh, he was getting some pretty serious looks from the ladies, even with the chair,” Rhodey said.

Tony smiled. “You think I should be worried?”

“Not from his end, but you might want to watch out for stray bullets or poison arrows or some shit. They might be coming for you.”

“I’ll be careful.”

Rhodey sat back again and shook his head. “I don’t envy you.” He paused. “Or maybe I do. I never noticed before, but those eyes _are_ something.”

Tony let out a surprised laugh. “You switching teams, Colonel?”

“Nah, the best one’s already taken.”

“Yeah, he is.”

“I meant you, dumb-ass.”

“So did I.”

Steve came up the driveway just as Rhodey was leaving. He invited him to stay just as Tony had done, but Rhodey turned him down, too. Meetings and missions, he said.

“Send Ross my love,” Tony said, “and tell him Cap said to fuck off.”

Both he and Rhodey looked at Steve. He looked blandly back and shrugged. “You heard him.”

Rhodey shook Steve’s hand then hugged Tony long and hard. Tony planted a gruff kiss on his cheek. Rhodey pulled back and held him at arm’s length. That motherly look was back on his face. “You remember what I said, Tony.”

He’d said a lot of things, but Tony knew what he meant. Thoughts of life preservers went round and round in his head. “I will.”

“And take care of yourself.” He turned his stern eye on Steve. “You too, Cap.”

“Yes, sir,” he said with absolutely no trace of sarcasm. As if he were addressing a superior officer. Tony supposed he was.

Rhodey slid behind the wheel of his car and put his sunglasses on. Tony ran a finger over the curve of the hood. “Nice ride,” he said as Rhodey turned the key. The engine purred into life.

“Yeah, well, I found a little something extra in my pocket this month.”

“Hmm. Funny how that happens.”

“Yeah. Funny.” Rhodey grabbed his hand. “You call me if you need me. I know I don’t have to say it, but day or night. You hear me?”

Tony nodded.

“See you soon.”

Tony closed the car door and waved as his friend drove away, beeping his horn twice. He watched until the car was gone and dust had begun to settle. He’d loved seeing him, but now there seemed to be a Rhodey-sized hole in his heart.

He turned back to Steve. “Hey, you wanna--” he stopped. Steve was gone. He was alone in the driveway.

Tony sighed and rubbed his face.

He went out to the garage for a little while. He’d bought a couple vintage cars to work on, but he didn’t really do anything on them. He mostly just moved things from one place to another, then gave up and left again. When he got into the house, he could hear the shower running. He picked up a little, folding then re-folding their blankets and tossing them onto the couch. Steve had continued sleeping out here and Tony had insisted on doing the same. The big bed in the next room had yet to be slept in, had yet to be even laid upon, although Tony did sit on it sometimes in the mornings to put his shoes on.

The water turned off in the bathroom and Tony shook his head to clear it. He went into the kitchen and put the rest of the dishes away, waiting for Steve, waiting to see what he’d say about Rhodey’s visit. 

Rhodey said Steve had asked him to come pick Tony up. But here he still was. Steve had to know it wasn’t going to happen. He was a stubborn son of a bitch, but he wasn’t stupid. And he knew Tony. He knew he’d never leave him here alone. At least, Tony thought he knew that.

Tony grabbed another beer from the fridge and sat down in his chair, letting his mind wander. He hadn’t drunk much since they’d been here. Just a glass of wine sometimes with dinner, a beer here or there, and this second one felt like an indulgence. It was funny to think that there had been a time in his life when he'd had his first one at noon, been drunk by three, and high as a kite by eight. Sipping this one now, he was glad those days were gone, but, he reflected, they'd had one advantage--everything had been a hell of a lot simpler then.

He reached over and picked up the blanket he’d folded. It was a short reach. After the first night out here, he’d moved the recliner closer to the couch, but Steve had made no attempt to touch him in the night, so Tony hadn’t either. They slept virtually side by side, but the space between them felt like a vast desert that neither of them were capable of crossing.

Tony shook the blanket out and looked at it. He heard Steve come up behind him but said nothing, waiting.

“There’s still chicken from last night,” Steve said, and Tony closed his eyes. “Or would you rather do something else?”

“No. The chicken’s fine,” he answered, striving to keep his voice steady. “It was good chicken.”

“Yeah. It was.”

Steve wheeled up beside him. “You cold?”

“No. I was just thinking.”

“Oh.”

Tony curled his hands into the blanket and brought it to his face. It was Steve’s and it smelled like him, the spicy, menthol scent of his aftershave and good, old-fashioned soap.

“Why’d you call him?” he asked, and Steve sighed, a sound of pure resignation that hurt Tony’s heart and put his hackles up.

“I thought you needed him.”

Tony nodded. “I need _you_ , Steve. When I need Rhodey, _I_ call him.”

“You looked pretty happy to see him.”

“Of _course_ , I was happy to see him. I’m always happy to see him, but that doesn’t mean you should have called him.”

He looked up, and even though he was trying to keep his anger in check, he could feel it bubbling under the surface like lava, getting ready to explode. “And I’m not exactly thrilled to hear my best friend and my boyfriend have been talking about me behind my back. That smacks of betrayal, Steve.”

Steve blinked as if Tony had slapped him across the face , but there was a hardness in his eye that darkened the ocean blue. “I’ve tried telling you,” he said, his voice low, “but you won’t listen. It’d be better--”

“What?” Tony snapped. “If I just left? If you summon someone to come get me?”

“Yes. Exactly. You’re too damn stubborn to leave on your own, so--”

“ _I’m_ stubborn?” Tony shouted. “Jesus, how many times do we have to have this conversation?”

“As many times as it takes you to understand!”

“A week ago, you were telling me you love me, and we were making out like teenagers, and now you want me gone. That’s fucking crazy, Steve.”

Steve’s eyes flashed dangerously. Almost all traces of blue were gone. Now, in his fury, they were almost black. “Yeah, that’s it,” he breathed, his voice cracked with malignant rage. “I know they’ve got all these fancy names for it now--mental defect, mental illness, PTSD, whatever the fuck--but it all comes back to plain old crazy, doesn’t it?” His breath was coming in short, choppy gasps, his mouth turned down in a bow, his hair, still damp from the shower, glistening in the lamp light. “I’ve heard you all talking about me,” he spat. “I should go ‘see someone’, I need to ‘talk to somebody’.”

He was shaking now. Tony could see it, his big hands trembling against the arms of the chair. His jaw was clenched, those eyes, flashing black pearls in the sweet cream of his skin. He looked both terrible and exquisite, like a god of old, worshipped on an altar stained with the blood of sacrifice.

“And I know what you mean,” he went on. “Doctors. Hospitals. Asylums. That’s what you do with crazy people, isn’t it? First, you have them ‘talk to someone’, then you ‘put them somewhere’, then you forget them. I’d rather die.”

Tony lowered his head, clutching at his own fleeting sanity even as he felt it slipping through his fingers. Had he thought Steve was stubborn? This was so much more than that. This was willful denial.

“I knew I never should have let you see _Psycho_ ," he said through gritted teeth. "But ‘doctor’ does not equal ‘hospitalization’ anymore, Steve. Millions of people see therapists. I see one. I’ve been going for years, twice a week, Tuesday and Thursday 1:30 pm. And if he hasn’t put me in the hospital, you’re definitely in the clear.”

“That’s different, Tony, you’re _different_ ,” he said. “I know you hate it when I say that, but it’s true. Don’t you see that? You come from here, you belong here, your problems are ones they know how to deal with. What doctor knows how to deal with me, Tony, huh? How do they help a guy who was dead for seventy years then brought back to life and told to fit in? Everybody I know is dead. Everything I know is either gone or completely different. It’s not even fair to ask a doctor to try and help me. It’d be like asking a ten-year-old to do brain surgery.”

“You keep saying that. But, damn, Steve, you’ve been here for years. You’re not that different anymore.”

Steve scrubbed a hand over his face then back through his hair. It was a rough gesture, heavy and exhausted, and when he moved his hand away, Tony could see the faint network of fine lines at the corners of his eyes like fissures in fine bone china. It shook Tony to see those lines. Steve may not have thought he was immortal, but Tony wondered if maybe he, himself, had thought he was, even after Thanos. He’d faced his own mortality many times--there was certainly a lot more salt in his hair than there had been five years ago--but the thought of it happening to Steve felt like blasphemy. Again, he felt that need to protect him, that need to keep him safe. And this wasn’t helping.

He closed his eyes as Steve spoke.

“I keep trying to pretend like I’m like everybody else. For you,” he said. “But, Tony, I’m not.”

“Okay. No, you’re not like everybody else. I know that, Steve. If anybody knows that, it’s me,” Tony answered. “You’re special.”

“And everything special about me came out of a bottle.”

Tony flushed with shame. “That’s not fair, Steve. We didn’t even know each other.”

“No, you were right,” Steve said.

“I wasn’t right,” Tony snapped, his voice sharper than he intended. He stopped, took a deep breath, calming himself, and began again. “I read Howard’s files. Hell, I read _Erskine’s_. He _picked_ you. He wanted you because you were a good man. There was something ‘indefinably noble’ about you. Those were his words, not mine.”

“You read his files?” Steve grumbled. “Why would you do that?”

“Because. I didn’t. Know. You,” Tony emphasized. “If I wanted to know something now, I’d just ask you. I’d talk to you.”

“‘Cause that always works out so well,” he said.

“It does,” Tony said. “When we do it.”

“Really?” Steve looked at him finally, a tiny rueful smile on his lips. “‘Cause it seems like every time we do, we wind up like this. Pissed off and tired.”

A cold finger of dread pressed against the base of Tony’s spine. “Are you saying it isn’t worth it?”

“No,” Steve sighed, pain clear on his face. “I’m not saying that, at all.

“You’re just saying you’d rather not talk to me.”

“I’d never say that,” Steve whispered, casting his eyes downward. “I’d never _feel_ that.”

Tony let out a breath. That had been a low blow. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry. I know that’s not what you meant.”

Silence spun out between them. Outside the open window, crickets trilled their nighttime song. Steve looked at the window, the dark pressing against it. His face was blank, unreadable even to Tony who was probably closer to him than anyone now, save one. He wanted this to be over, suddenly. It had gone on too long, had gotten too ugly. He wanted nothing more than to take Steve’s hand and mend this breach between them. Steve looked at his own hands. Tony watched him as he lifted one, curled it into a loose fist, then let it drop. When he looked up at Tony again, his eyes were blue, the black cast gone. They were big and blue and vulnerable.

“I shouldn’t’ve talked to Rhodey behind your back,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think of it as a...betrayal. I don’t-I don’t know what I thought.”

Tony cocked his head. “I might have over-shot with the betrayal stuff,” he admitted. “I was just mad.”

“Still…”

Tony sat forward in his seat, hands clasped loosely between his knees. “So, what now?”

Steve shrugged. “I’m tired. I think I’ll go to bed.”

“Do you want to eat first?”

“I’m not hungry.”

Tony wanted to protest, but he let the words die on his lips. He’d pushed him enough for one night. Maybe it was better to let it lie. Instead, he nodded and stood up. “I’ll go shower and stuff so you can--” he gestured vaguely at the couch.

“I thought I’d sleep in the bedroom tonight.”

Tony looked at him. A swarm of emotions engulfed him--dread, fear, hope. “Okay,” he said slowly.

“If that’s okay?”

Tony smiled, resigned, hurt, and terribly sad. “Sure it is, Cap. Wherever you want.” He started to walk away, then stopped cold when Steve spoke.

“It’s kinda dumb for you to sleep in that chair.”

Tony turned back. “I guess I could sleep on the couch if you aren’t going to.”

Steve shrugged self-consciously. “It’s a big bed,” he said, and looked down at his hands. He picked at one short nail, then glanced up at Tony with a shy, fragile smile. “If you want.”

“You wouldn’t mind?” Tony asked, his voice neutral.

Steve shook his head.

The hope broke free and swirled through his body, making him feel young again, but he matched Steve’s tone and body language, trying very hard to keep it serious for now, keep it formal. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll go shower,” Tony said, “and then, I guess I’ll see you in there.”

“Okay.”

Tony went into the bathroom and got into the shower. He kept the water cool, trying to ease his burning skin. There were no thoughts of sex being on the table, he just wanted to calm down.

He was going to be sleeping in the bed.

He was going to be sleeping in the bed with Steve.

Fucking _finally_.

He hadn’t slept in the same bed with someone--anyone--since Pepper, and he missed it. He’d never been one to sleep alone. It was always better when there was someone else there, someone else to curl up with, to touch, to listen to, even if it was just their breath or their heartbeat.

That was why he spent so much time in the lab, so much time _away_ from people when it got late. When there’s no chance of actually sleeping near someone, there was really no point in going to bed at all.

He climbed out of the shower, brushed his teeth, took a deep breath, and left the bathroom.

Steve sat patiently waiting in his chair outside the door. He had his hands folded in his lap, his eyes steadfastly on them as Tony entered the room.

Tony didn’t try to catch his eye, but he did catch the blush on his cheeks. Jokes bubbled up in his mind, but he pushed them all away. “All yours, Cap,” he said, instead.

“Okay. Thanks.”

Steve wheeled into the bathroom and closed the door softly behind him.

Tony went to the side of the bed. The right side, where he usually slept, then stopped. What if Steve slept on the right side? He should know this by now.

He turned down both sides and went into the kitchen for a glass of water. It was strange for him to be so nervous. Ordinarily, he’d just go leap into the bed, right in the middle, and let Steve roll him to whichever side he wanted, but that wouldn’t work here.

So, _this_ was what walking on eggshells felt like. He’d never felt it before. It sucked.

The bathroom door opened, and Tony counted to thirty with a “mississippi” in between each one before going back in. It was the coward’s way, maybe, letting Steve take point on this, but Tony was retired. He didn’t have to be brave anymore if he didn’t want to.

He felt bad about that when he came back into the bedroom. Steve sat at the foot of the bed, still in the wheelchair, teeth gnawing at his thumb. Tony tried to think when he had last seen a look of such pure, miserable distress on a person’s face, and could not do it. Already pale, Steve’s skin was as white as porcelain, his lips, red. Those three lines were back between deeply furrowed brows.

He didn’t look up when Tony entered the room, glass in hand. His eyes were trained on the bed, indecision spelled neatly out in his posture, the slight cock of his head.

Tony’s heart went out to him and he kicked himself for not biting the bullet himself. He stepped forward and gestured to the bed with the glass. Condensation beaded the smooth surface and it almost slipped from his hand. He tightened his grip. “Which side?”

Steve looked up, worry writ large on his face. “Uh, I--it doesn’t matter. Whichever, I guess.”

Tony took pity on him, not wanting to drag this out, not wanting to put him through the ordeal of decisions and declarations and being afraid he’d made the wrong choice.

“I usually sleep on the right,” he said, setting his glass on the bedside table. “That’s cool, isn’t it?”

Steve’s face eased immediately, as if invisible screws had been holding it up and they’d all been loosened a quarter of a turn. He nodded. “Yeah, yes, yes, that’s fine,” he babbled, and wheeled to the left.

There were two lamps, one on each side, and Tony snapped his on before slapping the overhead off. He adjusted the pillows, doubling one up, then got into bed. He lay on his back and pulled the blanket up to his chest, his arms free, then watched Steve surreptitiously from the corner of his eye.

He’d practiced on his bed in the hospital room in Wakanda, getting in and out by himself with as much ease and grace as a person could muster. He’d practiced everything and had gotten very good at all of it. The chair didn’t impede him much when he didn’t think about it, but here, in this new situation, after the arguments and the hurt feelings and this extremely tenuous truce between them, Tony could see the confidence draining out of his face as he moved up alongside and set the brake.

The couch was fairly low to the ground, and he slid on and off it with the ease of any man, impaired or not, doing the same task. The bed, however, was higher, the table set at an awkward angle. Tony had planned on asking Steve about it when they’d gotten here, having him try it out, then decide what he wanted done with the furniture to make it the most comfortable transition possible. But when WWIII and the Great Living Room Decampment happened, it had become a moot point. He wished now he had just moved the table out himself.

Steve’s pride was so important to him, both as a hero and as a man, and Tony had no desire to tread on it if he could help it. But watching him navigate the unfamiliar terrain of this new challenge had him walking on eggshells again.

Steve wet his lips--nothing sexy about it now, just a man preparing himself for a chore that could prove difficult--and moved the footrests out of the way.

Tony saw, even out of the corner of his eye, how Steve used his right foot to do that one, and only had to bend down to move the left one with his hand. He _was_ getting better. His mobility was starting to return. It had been six weeks since Thanos. Four of those, he’d spent in Shuri’s med-bay. The first in a drug-induced coma, the last three awake, in pain, starting the healing process, learning how to handle things like this.

Shuri was more than helpful, and Strange, for all his chilly bedside manner, had been like a dream, checking on Steve, running tests, even going so far as to smile and grab Steve’s toes in a gesture of solidarity before leaving for the night. Tony, grudgingly impressed, shook his hand, and when he and Steve left for good, even pulled him into a rough bro-hug. When they parted, their eyes locked. They both nodded in an I’ll-allow-that-because-of-the-situation-but-let’s-never-do-it-again kind of way. Steve had eyed them both, grimacing at the awkward exchange. He shook Strange’s hand. The look on the doctor’s face had been one of friendly relief.

Steve braced his stronger right foot on the ground, grabbed the headboard with his hands, and pulled, using his foot as little as possible for balance. His left leg moved a little, but still hung mostly useless yet, not impeding him--he’d learned to work around it--just being a nuisance, instead.

Steve let out a harsh breath as he pulled himself further onto the bed. His biceps bulged impressively. Tony gave up all pretense of not looking and turned his head, watching his progress intently. Steve lifted his right leg onto the bed, only using his hands a little, then hauled his left into place, settling it beside its mate. He rested his head against the headboard, eyes closed, fists loosely clenched, breathing in and out.

Tony was in awe of him, pride bursting out of every pore. Six weeks. Six fucking weeks. He’d been almost literally torn in two, organs rearranged and ruptured, spine a litter of bone fragments. He’d died, _died_ , in Tony’s arms on that grassy little hill in Central Park, and now here he was, using a leg that had been so much useless meat, to help boost him into bed. He was wearing that Yankees t-shirt. His face was smooth and clean. His nails short and healthy pink inside their beds. Tony wanted to wrap him in his arms and never let him go. He wanted to sit on a beach with him somewhere and drink Mai-Tais while the sun went down over the water. He wanted to watch him tie his shoes, and hear his voice over the phone, and yell at him for not wearing his helmet when he rode his motorcycle. But mostly he wanted this--to lie beside him in bed with the darkness kept at bay by a pane of glass and a cozy bedside lamp.

He just wished Steve was closer. He wished he dared touch him.

Tony sat up. _Well, why the fuck not?_ he thought. “Sit up a little,” he said.

Steve looked at him, worry on his brow.

Tony rolled his eyes. “Don’t make it a big thing, Cap, just do it.”

Steve sat forward and Tony grabbed one of the two pillows. He fluffed it, then put it back, fixing it in place. “‘Kay. You’re good. Lie back.”

Steve did, and smiled a little. Just the corner of his mouth, but it was a good one. Tony loved that half-smile. It was rapidly becoming one of his all-time favorite things.

“Better?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

Tony laid back down while Steve pulled the blankets up. If history told him anything, Tony knew he would throw them off halfway through the night. He’d seen that enough over the last week. He always started out with them, but in three hours, he’d throw them off, not waking, just a toss of his arm and an impatient sigh in his sleep. A while later, he’d be shivering. Tony would haul the blankets back up over him, and he’d burrow inside the sudden warmth like an animal burrowing under the ground to hibernate.

One time, he didn’t do it. After a particularly quiet day, Tony decided to just let the pig-headed bastard freeze. An hour before dawn, Steve shrieked in his sleep, shivering, tears on his face. Tony leapt to his feet and shook his shoulder. “Steve?” he’d said, afraid himself. “Wake up, baby. Wake up.”

Steve opened his eyes, terror in them. “Cold. It’s cold, Tony, help me, please.”

Tony drug the blankets back over him and he eased immediately into them. 

"Baby? Are you okay?"

But he was asleep. Tony ran his fingers through the tuft of blond hair that stuck out from under the blanket, wondering what the hell Steve had ever done without him, wondering who would take care of him if Tony wasn’t around to do it. He went back to bed feeling cold, himself. The idea was too frightening.

“Ready for the light?” Tony asked.

“Sure.”

Tony reached over and turned off the lamp. He was wearing a black t-shirt. The reactor glowed mellowly, diffused by the fabric, but still there. He closed his eyes, listening to the subtle shift of the linens as Steve settled himself beside him. It was all familiar, all things he’d gotten used to while they slept in the living room together, but here in the bed, the sounds seemed louder, heightened by the fact that Steve was bare inches from him, covered over by the same quilt. Here if he wanted to touch him, he’d only have to slide his hand along the smooth, unbroken line of the sheet. There’d be no rough terrain, no sudden drop-off at the edge of the chair, no leap of faith to where the couch began. Here, there was just the solid mattress, firm, but not too firm, cool sheets, then a warm body. It would be so easy.

But he couldn’t quite bring himself to go that far just yet.

He closed his eyes and was beginning to drift when Steve’s voice brought him back. “What?” he asked, pulling up from the shallow depths of sleep.

“Nothing. Never mind.”

“No, really, what did you say?”

There was a pause and Tony didn’t think he’d answer, then he said, “I asked what you talked about. When you go see your doctor.” Pause. “I know it’s private, but…” He trailed off and Tony glanced at him. He was still lying on his back, his straight, perfect nose pointed up, his lips parted slightly. His eyes were closed.

Tony shifted, twisting so he was on his side facing him. “No, it’s okay,” he said. “I don’t mind telling you some of it.” Steve was silent, listening, so Tony went on. “I talked mostly about Howard at the start. I know he loved me, but he didn’t like me very much. I was always a disappointment to him.”

A flicker of something--disagreement? disapproval?--moved over Steve’s face, then he was still. “To be fair, I didn’t make it easy to like me,” Tony said, watching Steve closely. “I did a lot of stupid things. I hung out with a lot of stupid people. I thought I was smarter than he was, and I shoved it in his face every chance I got.” Tony sighed. “I was a real dick.”

“You were a kid.”

“A fucking dumb-ass kid,” Tony agreed. “I think what pissed me off most was that we--my mom and I--always felt...optional to him. You know what I mean? Like, he had SHIELD, he had his work, he had his projects and designs, and we were just ‘out of sight, out of mind’ for him.” Tony smiled sadly. “He took us when we were there, and he left us when we weren’t. That was hard on my mother.”

“Maybe he thought he needed to focus on work to provide for you both. Make sure you were taken care of.”

Old, familiar anger flared inside him. He’d had the same thought before. Dr. Wilkes had brought it up in session once, too. It may have even been partly true.

“Maybe,” Tony said evenly. “Maybe that was some of it, but we would have given up some of the stuff to have him around more. My mother, especially.”

“She sounds like she was a real nice lady.”

Tony thought of his elegant, graceful mother. _Real nice lady, indeed_ , he thought, looking at Steve fondly. “She was,” he said. “She would’ve liked you.”

Steve turned his head, his eyes meeting Tony’s. There was gladness in them, mixed with apprehension. “You think?”

“Yes.”

“Would she have minded? That I’m...that we…?”

Tony snorted laughter. “You mean the guy-thing?”

Steve shrugged.

“No,” Tony scoffed. “I never brought anybody home, guy or girl, but she knew. She didn’t care.”

“It would have bothered Howard, though.”

“Honestly? Probably. A little, anyway.”

Steve looked away, nodding.

Tony slid his hand across the gulf between them, crossing it at last, and touched Steve’s arm. “Okay, no, he wouldn’t have liked it, but he would have come around. Even if he hadn’t known you before, you’re a likeable guy. You’re smart and sweet, and you’ve got that whole all-American, apple-pie thing going on. You would’ve won him over.”

Steve looked at him again, smiling his half-smile. “Do you think so?”

“Of course, I do. You would have dug your heels right in and kept at it until he couldn’t help but like you.”

“Is that what I did with you?”

“Actually, I think that’s what _I_ did with _you_.”

“Mm. Maybe,” Steve said. “You _were_ kind of at me all the time.”

“I had to get you to notice me somehow.”

“I noticed.”

Tony sighed and moved closer. He reached up and traced the line of Steve’s jaw with one finger, then cupped the back of his head, tangling his fingers in his hair. He looked him levelly in the eye. Steve didn’t look away.

“I miss you,” he said.

“I miss you, too.”

Tony tugged his hair a little. “Where have you been? Huh?”

“I don’t know,” he mumbled. “Around.”

“Just not around me.”

“Not because I didn’t wanna be, Tony,” he said, turning to face him fully. He reached out and touched the blue light of the reactor with gentle fingers. “I did want to be around you--I _do_ \--I just get so stuck inside my head, sometimes I can’t find my way out.”

“I could help you, if you let me.”

Steve closed his eyes. He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m sorry I’m like this,” he whispered. “You didn’t sign up for this.”

“I signed up for you. This is just part of it.”

“I don’t even know if it’s the worst part, though.” He opened his eyes and they were shaken, scared. “What if it’s only the tip of the iceberg?”

Tony brushed his hand over Steve’s smooth cheek. “You jump, I jump, Jack.”

Steve closed his eyes, a pained expression on his face. “Fucking Clint,” he muttered, and Tony laughed.

“Come on, tough guy, you cried.”

“We all cried. The old lady manipulates you through the whole movie. You’re _supposed_ to cry.”

“It’s supposed to be touching.”

Steve shook his head. “John McClane would never do that.”

Tony laughed. “Fuck no! John McClane would have beat the shit out of Cal, steered the ship himself, and gotten everybody to New York in time for happy hour.”

“Why didn’t they make _that_ movie?”

“They _did_ , baby. They _do_. All the time. Except they all star Liam Neeson now.”

Steve smiled at him, soft and sweet.

“What? You got a thing for Neeson?”

“No,” he said. “You just haven’t called me that in a while.”

Tony replayed what he’d said. Oh. He touched Steve’s face again, letting his fingers travel wherever they wanted. “I wasn’t sure if I should. You were mad at me, and--”

“I wasn’t mad at you.”

“In either case,” Tony said, dismissing it, “I didn’t want to upset you.”

“It wouldn’t have upset me,” he said. “But ‘Cap’ I can handle. Just don’t start calling me ‘Rogers’ again. I hate that.”

“Why do you hate it? It’s your name.”

Steve shot him an amused look. “Do you want me to start calling you ‘Stark’ again?”

Tony grunted, his hand trailing down Steve’s shoulder to his wrist and back again. “I see your point. It is a little impersonal.”

Steve closed his eyes. “Yeah. You might as well just say, ‘Hey, you’.”

“Better than ‘fuck you’.”

Steve laughed in the back of his throat, dark and deep and heady. “Always with the wit.”

Tony let him drift for a while, working up his own courage, then he nudged him in the shoulder. “Hey, you.”

Steve cracked one eye. “Fuck you.”

“Always with the wit.”

Steve grinned lazily. “What’s up?”

Tony plucked at the sleeve of his t-shirt. “Come over here,” he said. “I think I owe you one or two goodnight kisses.”

Steve pulled closer, draping one arm heavily over Tony’s hip. There was no hesitation, no deliberation, just that smooth movement to close the distance between them, then the warmth of him, the smell of him--aftershave, soap, the more subtle scent of the outdoors, all clean and healthy--and the weight of him enveloping Tony. He’d only been waiting for permission, it seemed, waiting to see if Tony was ready or willing to share that more intimate space again. Tony was both.

“One or two?” Steve asked, scratching Tony’s back lightly with his nails, making him shiver.

“Don’t get greedy,” Tony teased. “I’m not that easy.” He pulled Steve’s head down to kiss his forehead. Steve’s laughter was a puff of breath against Tony’s throat.

“No, you’re not easy.”

Tony kissed his eyes, his cheek. “Well, now you’re just being a smart-ass.”

Steve drug his hand back down Tony’s back and settled it on his hip, his fingers rubbing softly. “I’m sorry.”

Tony eyed him skeptically. “Do you really deserve kisses?”

“Mm. Probably not.”

Tony sighed and pulled him even closer. “Fortunately, I do,” he said, and pressed his mouth against Steve’s.

He didn’t know why Steve’s kisses always surprised him. He was an extremely confident kisser, both bold and sweet. Maybe Tony had assumed Steve would be timid. He was, after all, very prim and proper in his day-to-day activities. He had a 1940’s sensibility still when it came to what was appropriate and what was not, especially when it came to things like sexuality. He said very little, but he had no patience for people who made light of love and sex. Nevertheless, he did not judge. He’d been in the modern world long enough to realize his ideals were not shared by all these days, and he staunchly defended the human rights of any-and everyone, including the sexual ones.

More than once, he’d been approached by groups to back their causes. Steve usually heard them out, asked to see their literature, then respectfully and methodically ripped their principles to shreds. Tony had seen him do it. Anti-abortion groups, anti-feminist groups, anti-homosexuality groups (which tickled Tony to no end), had all been turned away by Steve Rogers, and they left intact, but with slightly dazed looks on their faces, as if they couldn’t quite remember what their original intent had been when coming to Captain America for an endorsement.

There was only one time when Steve lost his temper during one of these encounters.

They caught him on his way out of the building and began their spiel. They were clean-cut young men. Well-dressed and well-spoken. On the outside, they were not much different from Steve himself, but their rhetoric was pure venom given a candy-coating to make it go down easier.

Tony pulled up while they stood outside talking. He’d seen this sort of thing before, Steve in front of a loose group of guys with pamphlets and smiles, and he sauntered over to listen. He and Steve didn’t know each other very well yet, were still navigating the waters between acquaintances and friends, but he always enjoyed hearing a good, old-fashioned Steve Rogers smack-down. Especially when it wasn’t aimed at him.

As he got closer, though, Tony could tell this one was different. Steve, while still calm, had adopted his “Captain America” stance. Almost parade rest, his shoulders squared and solid, hands on his belt, head slightly lowered. Tony saw the muscle in his jaw working, the twitch of his fingers, and quickened his pace.

“When we, as a pure community, erase the black marks in this country’s ledger, it’s only then, we can truly be free. Don’t you agree, Captain?”

Tony reached Steve just in time. He put a steadying hand on Steve’s chest. His heart was pounding like a racehorse. His skin, deathly pale.

“What’s going on here, fellas?” Tony asked lightly.

They turned their manic, polite eyes on Tony en masse. “Mr. Stark. We were just telling Captain Rogers about our organization.”

“And what would that be?” He heard Steve breathing behind him. It was steady, intense, and deep. Tony did not move his hand.

“We’re a group--a family, really--of like-minded individuals interested in keeping the community clean and pure.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

“Get ‘em out of here, Tony,” Steve whispered, his voice flat and cold.

The leader took a step forward. He had a pleasant face, blue-eyed, blond. Though not nearly as tall or broad as Steve, they had a similar look, like distant cousins, maybe. He looked at Tony, _through_ Tony. “I wouldn’t expect someone with your, ah, heritage to understand, sir, but the captain will surely--”

Tony’s eyes flew open, understanding hit him like a freight train even as Steve surged forward. Tony planted his feet, putting himself bodily between the group and a pissed-off, hot-blooded Steve Rogers.

Tony was a little afraid, even as he blocked him, putting his back into it, pressing against him, cupping one hand around the side of his neck, trying desperately to get Steve’s eyes on him. “Hey, Steve, come on, big guy, look at me. JARVIS? Little help? Whoever’s available.”

“Our cause is a righteous one, Captain, if you’ll just--”

“Shut the fuck up,” Tony threw over his shoulder. “Steve, it’s not worth it, right? Come on, man.”

“We’re a brotherhood, Captain, who--”  
  
“ _Really_?” Tony shouted, and then, like a miracle, there was Clint coming out the glass door. Bruce trailed behind, cleaning his glasses on the tail of his shirt.

“What’s going on?” Clint asked. His voice was amused, but Tony saw how he moved between Tony and the other guy, his casual grace belying the coiled tension in his muscles. He was ready, if it came to it. Tony resolved to buy him something pretty when this was over.

Bruce stayed behind. “Steve?” he said quietly, putting his glasses back on. His voice was calm, soothing. “Steve, hey, let’s go inside, alright?”

Tony felt Steve begin to relax. The weight against him eased, then lifted.

Bruce put his hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Steve,” saying his name in an even tone, repeating it. Repetition was good. Relaxing. “Steve, let’s go inside. Cool down, alright?”

Steve’s eyes cut away from the group leader for the first time, looking at the ground near where Bruce stood behind him. “Bruce?”

He squeezed his shoulder. “Yup, it’s me, Steve. Just me. Do you want to come inside?”

Steve swallowed and nodded.

Bruce gripped his arm gently. “Come on,” he said, and Steve went, not looking back.

_Bruce, too_ , Tony thought. _All the pretty things for Bruce._

But first…

“Get the fuck out of here,” Clint said, good-naturedly, flapping his hand at the group like they were nothing more than a bunch of troublesome flies.

“This is a public space,” the leader said. “We’ll stay if we please.”

Clint cocked an eyebrow at Tony. He was smiling and seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.

“You’re right,” Tony said, coming up next to Clint. “It is a public space. But if you come near my friend again, I’ll call in some favors and find something on you. Now, I’m sure you upstanding young men don’t have anything serious on your records, but all I really need is an unpaid parking ticket. Just something to get you detained.”

“We aren’t doing anything wrong. The First Amendment--”

“Oh, he doesn’t expect it to stick,” Clint said lightly. “He just needs enough to get you put in a holding cell for an hour. Enough for the press to get your names and photos and put them on-line. How long will it take, Tony?”

“Before their faces are out there or before someone decides to come gunning for the racist fucks spreading their shit all over Manhattan?”

“Both. Either. Probably simultaneous, don’t you think?”

Tony nodded. “Probably.”

The guy flashed angry eyes. Clint shook his head indulgently. “So, like I said, get the fuck out of here.”

The guy turned and stomped off, taking his entourage with him.

Tony slapped Clint on the back. Clint spit on the sidewalk where they’d stood. Tony ignored the spitting. It seemed warranted just this once. “Self-important pricks,” Clint said. “I hate racists.”

“Let’s go see if Bruce has Cap under control.”

They found them in the lobby coffee shop. Both had cups of tea. A plate with four muffins sat untouched in the middle of the table. Bruce tapped away on his tablet. Steve sat hunched inside his jacket, studying his hands. He looked up as Tony came near.

“How you feeling, big guy?” Tony asked.

“I’m sorry, Tony,” he said miserably.

Tony slid into the booth next to him. Clint scooted in on Bruce’s side. “What are you sorry for?” he asked and snagged a muffin. “Blueberry?”

“Wild berry,” Bruce answered.

“Ooh!”

Steve kept his eyes on Tony. “I didn’t mean to get so mad. I just...the things they were saying…”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Tony answered. “They’re gone, and no harm done.”

Steve shook his head. “If you hadn’t been there…”

“But I was,” Tony said, catching his eye. “We all were. We’ve got your back. That’s what we do, right?” He looked around the table and Bruce patted Steve’s arm. “Hell, yeah,” Clint said.

“See?” Tony said, and the corner of Steve’s mouth lifted in a half-smile.

Tony put his arm around him and squeezed his shoulder when Steve leaned into him. They both missed the sly, knowing look that passed between Bruce and Clint.

Tony thought of that now, lying next to him, slowly kissing him, how big he’d seemed in the face of a pissant Nazi-wannabe, yet so small when he’d sat, chastened, next to Bruce in the booth. How menacing, how sweet, how proper, how passionate. He was a study in duality, this man of his. And he was his. The thought made Tony burst with a happiness that was so encompassing it was almost scary.

“Tony?” Steve asked, pulling back a little. “You okay? You shivered.”

“I’m good,” he said. “So good.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

Tony nuzzled into the crook of Steve’s neck and kissed him there, nipping at his skin. His hands, his worrisome, eager hands, trailed over Steve’s back, his arm, pausing at his waist before slipping under his shirt and touching the bare skin of his stomach.

Steve let out a breath and Tony narrowed his eyes.

“Is that okay?” he asked, his tone teasing, the question serious.

Steve nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, Tony. Please.”

“Are you sure?”

“Just, um, move for a second, okay?”

Tony moved back warily. He had no expectations after the last time they had been this close, so therefore didn’t know what to expect, but Steve still shocked him. He sat up, reached behind his own neck and grabbed the collar of his Yankees t-shirt. He pulled it one-handed, and in one smooth motion, it was over his head and off.

“Oh my god,” Tony breathed, unaware the words were even in his mind before they were on his tongue.

Steve tossed the shirt onto the foot of the bed then laid back down. He reached for Tony. His eyes were lit with a tiny smoldering ember deep down inside each one. “Come here, Tony,” he said, and his voice was deeper, rougher with need.

Tony moved next to him, but didn’t touch, just let his eyes move over him, drinking him in. He had seen him shirtless before, but never without blood or bruises or bandages covering him. Never lit only from the moon shining through the window and the ethereal blue glow of his own reactor. Never so close that he could touch--or taste--him.

“God, look at you,” he whispered, then met Steve’s eye. “May I?”

“Please, Tony. I want you to.”

Slowly, reverently, Tony ran his hand over Steve’s chest. The smooth skin, the hard muscle beneath. There were no scars, no cuts or scrapes, no marks at all, just pure alabaster perfection, like marble warmed in the Italian sun.

He smoothed his hand down over his abdominals, feeling the ridges of muscle under his fingers, ran his nails up Steve’s side, then paused before brushing his nipple.

Tony looked at Steve’s face. His eyes were closed, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, and if Tony had not already been completely in love with him he would have fallen hopelessly in that moment.

He leaned in to kiss him, sucking Steve’s bruised bottom lip into his own mouth, then sat up. One hand still touched his chest, ghosting lightly, so, so lightly over the skin, the other stroked Steve’s cheek until he opened his eyes. His pupils were huge, eating up nearly all the blue, turning them into black pools that were almost too deep to look into. It seemed dangerous, like one glance into them would make a man fall. Fall and drown.

“Tell me what you want, baby,” Tony said. “How do you want this to go?”

“Anything. Anything you want, Tony.”

Tony shook his head. “Not this time,” he said. “This time it’s anything you want.”

Steve looked at him, those eyes so dangerous, so innocent, the juxtaposition between the two making him dizzy with mad desire and a wild need to protect him.

“I don’t know what I want,” Steve said. “I just wanna feel you.”

“You haven’t ever--? With another man?” Tony asked.

“Does it matter?”

Tony smiled a little. “Just curious.”

A pink blush stained his cheeks, his chest. “I haven’t ever with anyone, really,” he said.

“Yeah?”

Steve frowned, those three vertical lines between his brows. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He sighed. “Yeah.”

Tony ran a hand through Steve’s blond hair, brushing it back from his forehead, and kissed his lips, slipping just the tip of his tongue between them. “Wow. Lucky me,” he said.

“Really?” Steve asked, uncertainty darkening his eyes even more.

Tony kissed him. Kissed his ear, his neck, tongued the divot at the base of his throat. “Really,” he said between kisses. “We’ll just start slow, okay? See what you like.” He kissed his collarbone, first one side, then the other.

“Not too slow,” Steve said quietly, urgently. He put his hand in Tony’s hair. “Please. Okay, Tony? I need you.”

Tony pressed his forehead against the hard muscle of Steve’s chest. How was this his life now? After all the mistakes he’d made, the ridiculous, selfish choices, after all the people he’d hurt, how did he possibly deserve to have this? He belonged in some whore’s bed, doing it dirty and fast, money already on the nightstand, stale cigarette smoke in his nose, a dog barking outside the window of an anonymous, concrete motel room. Not this. Not this beauty. Not this sweetness. Not this person laid out before him, wanting him, needing him, trusting him to know what was right, trusting him to make it good, begging him with blue eyes in a warm, gentle darkness that held no pain, no fear, only promise. How could he possibly get to have this after the life he had lived?

“Tony?”

_That was another life_ , he thought as he pressed his mouth to hot skin, as he let his tongue slip over smooth muscle, his hands touching, caressing. _Maybe we both died that day. Maybe this is us finally coming back to life._

“Tony, I still can’t handle much pressure--”

“Shh. I know.” Words spoken into the sweet warmth of his mouth. “It’s okay, baby, I’ve got you, alright? Don’t worry.”

“Okay, Tony.” Simple. Trusting. Unafraid.

Lips, tongue on his nipple. The sharp intake of his breath. Hand moving slowly lower. Finally. _Finally_.

“Oh, god, Tony.”

“Do you want...my mouth, or--?”

“Maybe--oh--just this. This time. Is that okay?”

“Whatever you want, baby.”

“I want--Tony--I want, oh god, don’t, don’t stop. Please. Please, Tony.”

“No. I won’t stop.”

Breath. Hot, panting breath. His name, a hundred times on his lips, a litany of consonants and vowels that added up to more than it ever had before. Mixing in with the name of god. Carrying a weight it never had before. Blasphemy to some, perhaps. Truth to him. Truth and love and beauty, spilling out of him at the cusp of it all. And then the sharp gasp of breath, the stop of the heart, the clench of muscles. All time stops. _Le petite mort._ The French say it best. They always do.

\---

“Are you awake?”

“Yeah, baby. You okay?”

The moon was still in the window, but it was lower. The shadows in the corners of the room were deeper, almost velvety in the remaining light.

Afterward, Tony had drowsed, tired but not sleepy yet, eyes closed, existing on the fringes of sleep but not quite falling. Steve was a vague silhouette beside him. The blanket lay over his chest, one arm behind his head, the other thrown with careless ease over his midsection. Tony had thought he was asleep.

“I need you to do something for me.”

“Sure. What is it?”

Steve was silent for a long time, but Tony knew he was awake. He could almost hear the cogs turning in his head.

“It has to be no-questions-asked. Okay?”

Tony turned his head on the pillow but could not see his face. It was lost in shadow. “What’s with the cloak and dagger? Is it really that serious?”

“No, I just don’t want to talk about it.”

Tony shook his head. There was that duality again. He thought about pressing the issue-- _How am I supposed to do it if I can’t ask about it and you won’t talk about it?_!--but he felt too good. Lazy and satisfied. He’d finished himself off with Steve’s eyes, hot and intense, on him, and when it was over, he’d pulled Tony into his arms and kissed him deeply. It had been quick and efficient and good, made better by the weight of Steve’s regard, and he still felt too mellow to fight.

He reached over instead and traced a pattern on Steve’s chest. “Alright,” he agreed. “No questions asked.”

“I want you to call around tomorrow and find me a doctor.”

Tony’s fingers stopped moving.

“Somewhere close, though. I can’t go back into the city yet. I-I don’t think it would be good for me.”

Tony closed his eyes, the sheer weight of his relief almost unbearable. His hands clenched into fists, one at his side, the other still on Steve’s chest. Steve put his hand over it.

When he could think clearly, he said, “Is this because of the sex?”

“We said no questions.”

“Just this one.”

Steve sighed. Tony waited.

“Not because of the sex.” Pause. “Because you want me to.”

Tony turned his hand in Steve’s until their fingers were locked together. There were those damn eggshells again.

“I love you for that, Steve, but it shouldn’t be for me. It should be for you.”

“No,” he said, and his voice was rigid. Unshakable. “It has to be for you. I won’t do it if it’s for me.”

“Steve--”

“No, Tony.” He stopped, and Tony heard him swallow, heard his ragged inhale, felt the hitch in his chest beneath their linked hands.

Tony took him in his arms and held him. Steve curled against him, head buried against his stomach, arm around him, hand clutching his back. “It’s okay,” Tony said, running his hands through Steve’s hair, rubbing soothing circles against his back and shoulders. “Hey, it’s alright. Don’t, baby, it’s okay.”

“I know the way I see things isn't always right,” Steve said against his stomach, his voice choked. “I know there's nothing to be scared of with the doctors and hospitals and stuff, I just....” He hitched in a watery breath and hugged Tony tighter, as if he was afraid he’d float away if he let go. “Just don’t give up on me, okay? I'll do whatever you want. I'll go to the doctor. I'll do the therapy. I’ll be better, I will, just don’t give up on me.”

For once, Tony was at a loss for words to say. Give up on him? He who had loved him and challenged him and seen something in him when no one else could? He who had never compromised himself for anyone or anything? He who had shown bravery, nobility, chivalry, honor? Had proven time and time again that those were not dead values, that they could still exist in this world that sometimes shunned them? He who had given himself over, placed his heart and his body into Tony’s hands, trusting him with everything he had, everything he was or ever would be? Give up on him? The very idea was laughable. More, it was insanity, madness in its purest form.

Tony touched the back of his neck, drawing his thumb over the knobs of his spine.

“You're not going to a hospital, Steve. I promise. Okay? You're with me. You're stuck with me. I'm never going to give up on you,” he said, then laughed under his breath. “Frankly, I’m a little offended. Since when do I give up on something I want? I mean, come on, you know me better than that.”

Steve sniffed, tightened his hold even more.

Tony shook him. “Right? You’re the one who’s always bitching about how tenacious I am.”

Steve exhaled a laugh. “I don’t think I’ve ever even used the word ‘tenacious’ before.”

“Well,” Tony drawled, “you may have said that other word, that ‘s’ word, but I knew what you meant.”

“Yeah, that sounds more like me.”

“It all comes down to the same thing, anyway, doesn’t it?”

“What’s that?”

“You and me.” Tony rested his hand in his hair. “I can’t leave my best guy, can I?”

“I hope not.”

Tony tugged his hair. “Knock it off or I’m going to kick your ass.”

Steve laughed, his breath warm against Tony’s stomach.

“That’s funny, is it?”

He shrugged one shoulder.

“I’m a bad-ass, Steve,” Tony said, all the while thanking every god that ever was for Steve Rogers and praying that he’d be able to find him the help he needed. Rhodey was right--he couldn’t be his shrink, but he could find him the best one. “You don’t even know how much of a bad-ass I am.”

“Bad-ass and smart-ass aren’t the same thing, Stark.”

“Always with the wit.”

Steve smiled against him and his hand slipped underneath Tony’s shirt to touch the bare skin of his back.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, Tony sliding his hand through Steve’s hair, Steve stroking Tony’s back, both thinking they had gotten the better end of the deal. Sleep was finally coming closer, finally ready to take him for the night. Before it could, he opened his eyes. Steve had stilled beside him, but he had to say this.

“I won’t talk about it, but thank you.”

Steve pushed Tony’s shirt up and pressed a gentle, friendly kiss to the skin he’d uncovered, then let the fabric fall back and curled tighter into Tony’s side, dragging the blanket with him, wrapping it around himself.

“I love you,” he said, making it an answer, turning it into a reason and not just a statement.

“I love you too, baby.”

They slept then, both slipping away, secure in each other’s arms. A few hours later, Steve threw the blanket away, huffing in his sleep. Tony woke up, shaking his head even as he still drowsed. He didn’t sleep, though, not fully, and when Steve shivered against him thirty minutes later, Tony was there to pull the blanket back up over him.

**Author's Note:**

> Little warning: The next story contains some graphic imagery and violence. Please be prepared for that. I will tag it, and if any of it is triggering for you, please avoid. Thanks again for reading!
> 
> Title comes from the Lord Huron song.


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